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by Loremaster_Loryn



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Closure, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2016-02-27
Packaged: 2018-05-23 12:32:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6116572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loremaster_Loryn/pseuds/Loremaster_Loryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To be read after 'Chapter 64: Tourniquet IV' of The Northrend Chronicles.</p>
            </blockquote>





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**Author's Note:**

> Seriously don't spoil it for yourself. Read after Chapter 64.

It was easier than waking up.

That juncture between breaths, that small, frail stillness that only exists in a timed pause every heartbeat- it was more infinite than this. The moment when it is upon him, wonder and exaltation blends into one and a euphoria is born.

It was easier than waking up.

* * *

No sound accompanied his footless steps. No breath partnered each word said spoken in silence. His fingers touched upon nothing that wasn't there, his eyes saw everything around him. The infinity was overflowing and he was at the house.

He knocked on the door.

* * *

It was easier than existing.

The planes of existence were confined and limited, contained and dimensioned. Here was freedom, unrestrained and eternal. Here was forever and future, comfortable and unknown.

This was what they feared? It was but the simplest thing; what a waste of oneself to fear such a thing as this!

It was easier than existing.

* * *

The hallways were carpeted ornately, the lights bright and strong in their steadiness. Brackets shone their gilded best, and paintings hung their finest. Stairs were climbed one at a time- not a creak passed between them- and traverse the waxed floors did he with pleasant ease.

He was guided by familiarity.

* * *

It was easier than pain.

Jumbled and fogged had his last days been, unable to articulate or navigate with clarity. Memories and thoughts had melded, splintered or blotted into forgetfulness. He had drowned within himself, long before his passing, too choked on his slow deterioration to cry for help.

He could breathe now.

It was easier than pain.

* * *

This was the room, for a simple white balloon, matching a simple white sash, guarded its doorway. The handle was polished brass, curved and sculpted opulent. It clicked open with a simple calm, heralding what awaiting him inside.

He felt a breeze upon him for the first time in too long.

With a tug of soft lips, he stepped forward.

* * *

It was easy. The easiest thing he had ever done.

Dying wasn't difficult to do; it happens between breaths, between moments and heartbeats.

It happens- and happened, and it is done.

It was not an action, or deliberate or a state; but a transition _between_ states. It is when one transcends from _being_ to _memory_ ; from alive to not alive and what a beautiful transition it is. To unravel in physicality in less than an instant, to then exist in eternal thought and persistence, to understand that this is where you have always existed- truly remarkable.

Pain is banished, fear is now unafraid. Grief dissipates and worries fizzle into nothing. Burdens both physical and not are lifted, never to weigh down again. Torment and bitter vengeance evaporates and sins are cleansed.

Enlightened of his tarry sorrows and reprieved of that dire half-life, relief is his. The hollowness that had consumed him is gone, for now … now he just _is,_ just has he always has been, and always will be.

Yes, he thought, dying was easy.

* * *

A hand, small and delicate, slots into his own. The larger hand- _his_ hand- is fleshed and ring-bearing. It is pinched brown and veined, a pulse of – of _him_ humming beneath.

She squeezes his hand with a giggle. Her dress is layered and surrounds her in an innocent halo. It is tied with a white sash.

She calls him 'silly' for she has missed him.

They cross the windowed room together, never straying from each other ever again. The light impossibly bright, but casting no shadows in this sacred place.

He tentatively approaches the pair; seated serene and glorious in their passing. They are happy and content, pleased to see him. Their eyes are wise and knowing. His shame is washed away.

His brother is solid and loved in death. His wife is radiant and inviting.

With his free hand, he reaches out to the linen-clad bundle in her arms.

A tiny palm, from which five tiny fingers extrude, clings around elegant thumb. He has finally met his niece.

A smile, easy and free, content and fulfilled, and too long between happenings, breaks upon his face. A crystalline tear, woven of suppressed yearning and uncontained joy, escapes hazel eyes.

William has come _home_.


End file.
